


Sixty Six Seals

by Salamander



Series: Sixty Six Seals [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-15
Updated: 2012-02-15
Packaged: 2017-10-31 05:47:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/340604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Salamander/pseuds/Salamander
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The breaking of the Seals; starting with the first and most important - the Righteous Man.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sixty Six Seals

**Author's Note:**

> Originally intended to be a series of short things about the sixty six seals, I quickly realised that was a somewhat ambitious project. Here's the short series I managed to get done.

"Time is fluid here, Dean," Alastair said. "I said this to your daddy, but he ignored me. Honestly. You'd think people like you would learn," he stretched out the word lazily, "to take me seriously." He leaned in close, and flickered his tongue up Dean's stubbled cheek. "He was so… hm,  _righteous_ , your daddy." So much contempt in that word, and Dean felt a moment of pride that John Winchester had managed to get under a demon's skin. This was quickly replaced, however, with a moment - no - an eternity, of pain, as Alastair ran the tip of his favourite knife ever-so-slowly down the major vein of his left wrist.

"Down the ri-i-iver, not across the bri-i-idge," he sing-songed, as a blossom of red followed his blade. "It never fails to amuse me, you know. Watching you die." He tilted his head up at Dean, drinking in every grimace of pain, every intake of breath, like an elixir. "Oh sure, they say getting there is half the fun, but it's the final breath that really, hm…gets me going." He reached up and caressed Dean's face in a parody of gentleness.

Dean spat a mixture of blood and bile into Alastair's face and bared his teeth. "It's a bit," he coughed, throat raw from Alastair's last ministrations. "Pathetic that you only get off on people's last breaths. I mean come on!" Dean stared at Alastair, and tried his damnedest not to wince away from his touch. "You're like a dude who's watched too much porn, and now he can only get his rocks off to chicks shitting on each other," he sneered, and then spluttered as Alastair's hand shot to his throat, silencing his words as effectively as if he'd torn out his voicebox. Dean was intimate with how that particular torture felt.

"Never forget, Dean," Alastair smiled, "Down here? Your quips mean nothing. Time is-"

"Yeah, fluid, I get it," he gasped, suddenly horribly aware of where Alastair's  _other_  hand was. Dean bucked against the restraints - though it had never done any good before - as Alastair's one hand slowly, so slowly, throttled the life out of him, and the other, oh, the other.

At first, Alastair had been viciously fast - spilling himself into Dean over and over again, glorying in the look of violation on his face and the delicious screams at his demon heat. But, after a time, he grew more… fond of the man strapped to his rack. And there was nothing like death throes to make a man tight, oh, so tight. And so he had begun to take his time - to think up ever more exquisite ways of making his grasshopper break.

"Time is fluid here," Alastair pressed his face close to Dean's, the odour of rot on his breath. "Exactly how long do you think you can endure? They always said you were daddy's favourite - just how long can daddy's favourite little hunter hang on to his pathetic thread of humanity? What if I were to… offer you something. Something, hm, priceless? Just how long would it take?"

Dean strained his head forward and glared. "As long as it takes, you sick son of a bitch."

Alastair laughed, and turned to his instruments. He ran a hand over them lovingly, and selected the cat-o'-nine-tails. Settling it on a brazier, he waited - not long - and then hefted it, the tines glowing redder than blood.

Alastair advanced, the achingly familiar words on his lips once more, and Dean's head sagged with the weight of it all.

"Time is fluid here, right?"

"And don't you know it, grasshopper." He whet his favourite knife on the stone hanging from his belt of intestines, and flashed Dean a wolfish smile. "You've had more time to think on my offer, now." He traced the line of Dean's throat with a finger, and then, quick as possession, he whipped the knife up and pressed it right at the corner of his right eye. A pinprick of blood welled up like a ruby tear, and, suddenly, shamefully, Dean knew he couldn't take any more. Every inch of him screamed, because, although his body healed itself every time it died, it still retained the memory of pain - the endless agonies, the pokes and the prods, that Alastair had inflicted upon him.

"No more," he whispered.

"I'm sorry, you'll have to speak up, Dean," Alastair smirked, and nicked the knife in just deep enough to cut bone.

"No more!" Dean's voice, ragged from screams, broke like his heart. "Sign me up. Please…" Alastair tore him free of the barbs, and a razor was pressed into his bloody palm.

"You've got to start small," he grinned, as Dean stared down at the razor. "You're gonna do me proud, boy."

Dean shuddered as his body healed itself - skin folding back to its rightful place, blood dripping off until he was clean again, sight restored in both eyes. He flexed his arms as bones repaired, fracturing back to where they belonged. Even the healing  _hurt_ , but it was made somewhat better by the sight of Alastair providing his first victim - a girl - struggling and screaming. Dean looked at her dispassionately, took her face in his hand, and started small.

The sound of Alastair's delighted laughter filled his ears, and Dean did not hear the almighty crack as Lucifer's first seal shattered.


End file.
